A Supplement, TO THE Last Will and Testament OF ANTHONY EARL of SHAFTSBURY; With his last Words, as they were taken in Holland, where he Died, January the 20th, 1682.
MOurn!
England, Mourn! let not thy Griefs be feign'd,
The
Tap so long upon the Lees is Drain'd.
The Cringing
Pillar of the
State and
Church
Is fall'n, and left his Profelites ith' Lurch.
Alas! what will become oth'
Reformation?
The
Popish Plot, and black
Association?
Our
Rights and
Liberties, and
Good Old Cause?
Patch'd
Juries, and the
Ignoramus Laws?
What will become oth'
Saints in
Tribulation?
If
Tory-Loyalty comes into Fashion.
The
Salamanca Doctor must take Post,
If
Thompson, and
Lestrange must Rule the Rost.
And Monkey
Care, Gotham, and
Snivelling Dick,
Must from the
Hague, ev'n follow, to Old-Nick.
In vain we strive to shun th' appointed Fate,
That on the
Knave, as well as
Fool, does wait.
Though I (said he) have drawn Infectious Breath,
And Liv'd this Eighty Years in spight of Death:
Had I been Hang'd but Fifty Years agone,
Less Treason had Ensu'd, less Mischief done.
But as there is an Evil Genius waits
On private Men, so there's in
Publick States.
The Universal Tempter of Mankind,
That always in the Ditch will lead the Blind,
Of Sin and Faction, the allotted Bane,
And for that very Cause has leave to Reign.
Else
Belzebub, long since, I'de been thy due,
But that he fear'd, I shou'd supplant him too.
Thus, like the Devil, I was Born a Curse
To all Mankind. My Lord and Master, worse
Betray'd, like
Judas, while I kept the Purse.
Yet still, in every State, I walk'd Secure,
Grave with the King, and Jocun'd with the Whore;
And never did one Lucky Mischief Brew,
But Grateful Lawrels still adorn'd my Brow:
In every State have so Successful Bin,
As Fame alone were the Rewards of Sin.
And all this while, not the Sevearest Law
Cou'd find me Faulty, though they found a Flaw.
Still by my
Art, or
Ignoramus Friends,
I
Guiltless seem'd, and still pursu'd my Ends.
For what was all this specious Pretence?
Of Subjects Rights, and Safety of the Prince?
Religion, Liberty, Association?
But to Betray all, and Inslave the Nation?
Which by so many Plots I did Inthral,
Whilst the blind Rabble Worship'd me as
Baal.
But now the Mist is Vanish'd from their Eyes,
They see my Crimes through all its thick Disguise;
(Though, for the
Saints, and
Brethren, I dare say,
I cou'd have kept in
Ignorance to this Day,)
Once Sons of Light: But now the
Saints are blind,
While
Tories, Janus-like, have Eyes behind.
Thus, all my Shams discover'd, I poor I,
Was forc'd, although my Wings were Clip'd, to Flie;
Nay, though no Legs I had, my Gate was Fleet,
Oblig'd to Travel, though I had no Feet:
From Justice (all my Crimes laid at my Door)
Found power to run, who cou'd not Crawl before.
Old and Decriped, Gouty Toes, Scarr'd Shins,
Turn Pilgrim in my Dotage for my Sins.
My Strength and Action gone, I mount the Stage,
With all the Frailtys that attend on Age,
And nothing left me but the constant Will,
And Natural Inclination to do ill.
Glad to sham off with all my Vanquisht Hope,
To save that Neck that wou'd disgrace a Rope.
My Hopes are fled, let Death wind up the Charm,
Lifes but a Plague when I can do no harm;
Your Canting
Words no longer will prevail,
Your
Liberty, and
Property is Stale;
The
Rights and
Priviledges of the Nation,
Are but cast Suits, when
Loyalty's in Fashion.
Your
Plots and
Perjuries will do no more,
Your
Slavery, and
Arbitrary Pow'r,
Are like my Banish'd Self thrown out of Door.
VVhat now remains, but that the
Tap should Burst?
VVho can do any more, that has done his worst?
That the Proud Foe Rejoyce not in my Fall.
Now Heart, break Heart, and Baffle
Catch and All.
But e're I Fall a Victim though too late,
In a Vile Nation, to a Viler Fate,
I thus Bequeath the Remnant of my Estate.
My former Will as Fates Decretals stands,
But something's due unto the
Netherlands;
For their Civilities, since here I fled,
Foul Linnen, stinking Fish, and mouldy Bread.
To th'
States because they are a Free-born Nation,
I do Bequeath my New Association,
That perfect Model of true
Anarchy,
And Charm against all
Monarch Tyranny.
Tho' to live here, (had it so pleas'd the Fates,)
I had been King, or th' Devil had had the
States.
My Heart with Faction flam'd that Source of Evil,
I leave to my Old
Club that haunts the
Devil.
As Fickle and as False as is your own
Sworn Enemy, to all that Sways the Throne.
My Lungs (my
Ignoramus Friends) is yours,
But for my Leights, I leave 'em to the
Bores;
To Blow the Bellows of each New
Sedition,
On any Change of
Faction, or
Religion.
My
Tap and
Spiggot was dispos'd before,
Or that had serv'd some
Belgick Commons-Shew'r;
A Soveraign Cure for an
Hydroptick Nation,
To stop, or else let out the Inundation.
To drown the
Monsieur for his late Abuses,
And vent out all their Venom through the Sluces.
I leave my
Brains to that
Incestious Crew,
The
Lordly Tribe, who lofty
Treasons Brew;
Those Hot-Brain'd Fiery
Catalines of State
Who their own, and the Nations Ills Create,
And will, I fear like Me, Repent too Late,
To
Bethel and his Brethren I Resign
The Ax which baffled Fate predestin'd Mine;
To do that Execution they would bring
On
Monarchy, and an
Indulgent King.
To th'
Salamanca Beagle of the Plot,
I leave a Halter as his proper Lot;
For his ill Management, while
Tory striv'd,
Of an ill Plot that was so well contriv'd.
And Lastly to those Friends who were at Strife,
Losing Themselves to Save a wretched Life;
I do Bequeath my Sledg as the just Fee
Of their Accumulated Perjury.
These With my Gouts, and Pains, I leave to those
Who did my long deserved Fate oppose;
Their too officious Kindness prov'd a Curse,
To Hang is bad, to dye Unpitty'd's worse;
Since I had rather fall'n a Martyr there,
Then Rot, and Moulder in Effigie, here,
You the Trustees of this my Dying Will,
If you in Villany wou'd prosper still,
Be sure you justly every Point fulfil.
FINIS.
London, Printed for John Smith. 1683.